


hush.

by bulletthestars



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-20 03:26:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1494817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bulletthestars/pseuds/bulletthestars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You've been hearing things about Nico sleeping around with others in the paddock. (Or, post Interlagos 2007 — you've already lost the championship, and you don't want to lose him too.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	hush.

Nico opens the door after three knocks, hair tousled and sleepy eyed.

'Lewis,' he says. He looks down at himself, conscious of what he's (not) wearing. Just a faded old t-shirt and a pair of boxers. 'Hang on,' he says, about to shut the door in your face when you push past him and into the room. 'Lewis, what are you-'

You kiss him. Or rather, you mash your lips against his and he gasps, lips parting and you take the opportunity to shove your tongue into his mouth. He tastes of mint and citrus, like mouthwash.

You don't want to hear what he has to say. The thing is, you've heard lots of things about Nico. Things you've never heard about him when you were karting together, teammates, sharing hotel rooms. It had always been the two of you, arguing over stupid things and trying to one up each other in all aspects of your lives — on track, on the dining table, whenever, wherever. Then it had all changed, when he had gone on to Formula BMW. You had always come in first on track, ahead of him, but he had always been the first to do things — first to try driving a Formula One car and you had stared at the newspaper, not sure of what it was in your chest that was threatening to rip your heart apart when you had read those words. The experience of a lifetime, what you had been hoping for for so long, and the fucker had compared driving in the highest class of racing to a Playstation game. Frank Williams had been impressed. You had pressed your fingernails into your palm and thought of the deal you struck with Ron Dennis years ago. You'd get there.

So the years had gone by, and Nico had gone up to GP2 before you had. The newly created class of racing, the new feeder series for Formula One. You had watched, mouth dry as he had gotten podium after podium, eyes wide in disbelief when you had learnt that he had won the championship.

Then he had left for Williams in 2006, and you had taken his place in his old team in GP2 and afterwards, the championship title too. And now you're both here, here in Interlagos at the end of the Formula One season as you kick the door to his hotel room close. He's backed up against the wall and he's got one hand against your chest and it feels like he's _kissing back_ -

You pull away, looking at him, breathless.

'Lewis,' he says. His lips are wet and there's uncertainty in his eyes, like he wants to back away, but you're not going to let that happen. You've trapped him with your arms, and short of sliding down the wall and moving underneath you, there isn't any way for him to escape. He licks his lips, and you watch, mesmerised as he drags his tongue along his lower lip. 'You're drunk. You should rest, it's been a long day for all of-'

'I know what you've been doing.'

'What?'

'I said I know what you've been doing.' You don't really know how to say it, god it feels fucking stupid now that you're here with him like this, alcohol in your veins. Liquid courage, or some sort of shit. You're not drunk, just one bottle of beer makes you feel warm and fuzzy but you're most definitely not drunk. 'With the rest of the paddock.' It sounds awkward. Like you're back in secondary school again, and all the other boys had been talking about sex and you couldn't even bring yourself to say the word 'fuck'.

'Lewis, I don't-'

'How many have you slept with?'

' _Lewis_ -'

'You started with Heikki then he wasn't enough so you moved on. It was so fucking easy for you to get what you wanted, wasn't it?' Your eyes narrow, looking at him, shifting uncomfortably under your gaze. 'Everyone else in the paddock knew about it except for me.' The words should sound condescending, but you sound bitter instead. You bite your tongue so you wouldn't say the rest, god it's so fucking embarrassing because you're always the last to know. One step behind him, one category below. Well look where he is now.

'Lewis, it's not what you think it is, I don't know what you've heard but whatever it is, it's not like that, I can explain...' He's tripping over his words and he's looking at you with that wounded look in his eyes and god you hate it, you want to tell him to stop looking at you like that because it's like he's stabbing you in the gut, turning the knife about to hurt you further. It isn't as if he hasn't given you this look before, you remember it from a time before he had started returning your barbs with equally scathing remarks. God it's been so fucking long but it still cuts deep, and this just makes him seem like he's made of glass, like he'd shatter if you push him far too hard and you hate it because he's not _that_ weak.

'Save it,' you say. He looks up at you and you see it, that defiant jut of his chin and fuck, more than anything, you want to wipe that look off his face. So you lean in and kiss him again, all tongue and teeth.

Truth is, you don't really know what you're doing. You haven't had much experience with anyone, just lots of fumbling and a couple of mistakes here and there, far too eager to get off and you're not even good at kissing but Nico's reacting like you're too good to be true and fuck, it's bullshit. You're definitely not the first he has ever had, not even the tenth or the fifteenth, god you don't even know what number you are, and the thought sickens you. How many people have had him, like this, lips parting and taking everything you have to give?

But really, you don't want to know the answer. You fist your hand in his shirt, tugging at it so you can slide your hand underneath the material, feeling his skin underneath your fingertips. It's warm.

He's gripping hard at your shoulder now, it's starting to hurt so you pull back, gasping. Your eyes flicker downwards and you can see it, the tent in his boxers. You look up at him again, his cheeks are flushed, he's desperate to avoid your gaze and your eyes narrow, reaching for him.

When you touch him, he gasps, but he makes no attempt to push you away. He's just there, against the wall, letting you feel him through his boxers and something about it makes you angry. It shouldn't be like this, just this, and so you yank his boxers down with your other hand, freeing his cock.

He looks ashamed. 'Lewis, you-' He's squirming, like he's desperate to move away from you but you reach for his cock, wrapping your hand around it, stroking. He makes a low, keening noise that sounds like he's undeniably pleased. 'So eager. Bet you want me to fuck you.'

'Lewis-'

'Shut up.'

He's trembling. God he's trembling and you've never seen him like this before, there's a flash of something in his eyes and you don't even know what it is — fear? But you've seen him after his races after fucked up crashes and you've never even seen anything like this before. There's something different about this, something raw and at the back of your mind you wonder if this is how you've wanted it with him. Like this, with him hardly able to look at you, clad in only a t-shirt while you've still got everything on.

Then again, does it really matter? With the number of people he's had already, nothing can be new for him.

'Bed,' you order, and when he doesn't move, you grab him by the wrist, fingernails sinking into his skin as you drag him there, pushing him down.

'Lewis, you-'

'You do this with everyone, don't you?'

'Not like this-'

'Of course not. How do you do it, on your knees, someone fucking you from behind?'

There's an assortment of condoms and lube in the bedside drawer. Just as you had thought. Easy access, for whoever he brings back for the night. He catches your hand.

'Lewis, _please_ -'

'On your knees.'

It doesn't come as a surprise when he stays where he is on the bed, still.

'Now.' Your voice is quiet. You would've yelled, roared even, once upon a time. Not now. Not today. You could scream at him and all you'd get would be him matching you pitch for pitch. You've had your fair share of shouting matches before and you had both come out with bruises.

There's that look in his eyes again. Shame. Hurt. You hate it. You don't want to look. It shouldn't be like this. He's hard and he wants you to fuck him. That's what it is. That's how it should be. He moves, shifting until he's on his arms and knees, arse up in the air.

He's offering himself to you. You're going to take him.

You open the bottle of lube, fingers shaking. God you're nervous, why the fuck are you nervous? The lube splashes off your fingers and on to the bed, but there's enough for you, and you spread his arse cheeks, pressing a finger to his entrance before pushing it in entirely.

Nico hisses.

'You've taken more than this, haven't you?' You've heard stories, two drivers sharing him and him taking it all, two cocks in his arse. You push another finger into him, and once you've gotten past the initial resistance it's almost as if he's sucking you in greedily, wanting more. You thought he would've been looser, having had so many people but he's tight, clenching around your fingers. You wonder how it'd feel around your cock. You'll find out soon enough.

There's a muffled cry when you pull out your fingers. Nico's face is in the pillow. It's better this way, you tell yourself. You don't have to look at him with that wounded look in his eyes, trying to hurt you even more after all he's done.

You roll on a condom, slicking yourself up with lube. 'Don't know who you've been with before, don't want to catch anything from you,' you say, loud enough for him to hear, and his only reply is a soft whine when you press the tip of your cock against his entrance.

He's hot and tight. Better than anyone you've ever had before. Not that you've had many, but still. You grip at his hips, pulling out before slamming into him again. All is quiet save for the slap of skin against skin, your harsh breathing and a choked sob. You look down and there's a pang in your heart when you see his shoulders shaking. Like he's crying, and you haven't even seen that before, not even when he had a huge scrape on his shin with blood all over.

Some part of you wants to tell him not to cry because this isn't supposed to hurt, god it's supposed to be pleasurable. You want him to enjoy this. He _has_ to enjoy this. Hasn't he with all the others he's had? Why should it be any different with you? But the words don't come, so you reach for his cock, jerking roughly and he gasps, hips bucking against your hand. Oh yes, he's enjoying this. You pull out so that only your cockhead's in his arse and he pushes back against you, wanting you inside him again.

'Such a slut for my cock,' you say, biting back a laugh. 'You like this, don't you? Hard and fast, someone fucking you into the mattress.' He doesn't reply, but his movements are more than enough to tell you that he wants more.

'Whore,' you say, breathless. The words are tumbling out of your mouth before you even think them and some part of you thinks you shouldn't say it but that's the truth, isn't it? He's probably slept with half the paddock, who knows what it takes to satisfy him. You draw deep, shuddering breaths as you withdraw and thrust into his tight heat again and he shifts, like he's spreading his knees further apart so that you'll be able to go deeper. 'You'd let anyone fuck you, wouldn't you?'

He makes a strange sort of noise, like a strangled cry but he doesn't move away, doesn't attempt to get away from you. He's beneath you, face buried in the pillow, biting at it as you fuck him, and you think, maybe you've hurt him, maybe you've gone too far, maybe you shouldn't have said anything because Nico's your _friend_ , isn't he? But how could he be, you're competing together, against one another, one track position gained against him is one small victory, but this isn't like karting any more, is it? You know just how good his Williams is, it's nothing compared to your McLaren, you're on the podium on your first goddamn race while he's scraping through the points at 7th and of course you remember how it'd been like when you'd been karting but now, but now. 

You still can't help but feel like there's constant competition, a constant need to prove that you're better. Who gives a fuck if he had gotten into Formula One a year before you did. That's what you think as your fingernails dig into his skin, you want to claw your marks into him, maybe this is what the others have done with him but the thing is that really, what you want to know is _why_ , how could he have let himself be with a whole lot of other people, why had he chosen them, god you need to know because the truth is deep inside you ache and fuck, _were you not good enough_? Why had it been them and not you? 

Was it because you had come in far too late, unable to keep up with him, daddy's boy living in fucking Monaco but so lost, when you tell him proudly about your home race he looks at you, eyes impassive, not understanding how your heart swells with pride when you look at the crowd, waving Union Jack after Union Jack for you. He tells you _it must be nice to have this_ but that isn't what you want to hear, and what you really want to say is that you would share the feeling with him if you could but it's stupid, and you look at the jut of his chin as he looks on and you think right, how the fuck could he want what you have when he's got everything? World champion father with a silver spoon in his mouth and a pretty face. Sometimes you think that he's so pretty that you wouldn't mind if he were your girlfriend, but you know all you'll get is a flash of anger in his eyes if you ask, followed by him snapping at you in clipped tones. And of course, you'd laugh in his face because these are the childish games you play to rile each other up to mask your hurt at seventeen but you're no longer teenagers, you're too old for this shit now. Or are you really?

Yet he's not a prize, at least, he's not _your_ prize, or maybe he is because this is what you deserve after working so hard, losing out on the championship by one goddamn point. And there's the impending shitstorm about what Fernando had pulled but fuck, to think that he had finished ahead of you in that Williams of his in the last race of the season, finishing fourth and if you'd been in his place, if _you_ had been the one who had finished fourth the world would be at your feet now. And to think that his fourth position in today's race is the best finish he has in his Formula One career, while you've already had four wins to your name. But things never go the way they should so all you have is nothing, a paltry second, but he's what you've always wanted and now that he's here with you, maybe this is more than just a consolation prize.

Or maybe this is worse than a consolation prize. It feels so good for you, fucking Nico like this, leaving marks all over him in places where others can't see but when they take off his clothes they'd know that he was yours, once, at least. The thought that he'd always have someone else never leaves you, and some part of you wants him to know that you can be so much better than whoever he might have but at the same time you know it's not going to work.

Afterwards he's lying on the bed with his golden hair all fanned out on the pillow like a fucking halo around his head, like he's an angel that you had just defiled and tainted like the monster you are. His cheeks are tear-stained and there're marks all over, stark against his pale skin but those aren't even marks of possession, it's like a sick parody of some shit pickup line you wouldn't even dream of using, _did it hurt when you fell from heaven_ and the answer's obvious, it's _yes it fucking did because I dragged you down to hell while you screamed and kicked and fought to break the surface_.

'You should go.' There's a quiver in his voice, and it kills you because you know that you're the fucked up arsehole who put it there. His usual confidence is gone, all that's left is broken and it's all your fault.

'I'm sorry,' you say, but the words sound hollow and empty, worthless and cheap after what you've done.

'Just go,' he says. He's curled up into a ball now and you swallow hard because you think of how he'd slept when you had shared hotel rooms and he seems so small all of a sudden. You remember what he had told you so long ago, that he doesn't really belong anywhere even when the two of you had stood in his room in Monaco, staring out at the sea together. And you know you'd let him make a home out of you, you'd let him return to the shelter of your arms and you'd run your hands through his hair and tell him it's okay even if he doesn't feel like he belongs when he hears the Finnish or German national anthem because he belongs with you but what's the point? You've done what you've done and you can't take things back any more, but god you want so badly to try because this was the last thing you wanted, for him to turn against you. You can take anyone doing that to you, you've survived your first year at McLaren but this, coming from Nico, god you don't think you'd be able to live with it.

'I-'

'Go.'

You had come to him because you had been hearing _things_ and god, now that you've lost the championship, you can't afford to lose him too, not to anyone else in the paddock. But it's fucking ridiculous, isn't it, because _how can you lose something you've never had_?

The door clicks shut behind you as you stumble out of his room, feet unsteady. You shouldn't be here, what would people say if they saw you here, you should be leaving but really, after all this, there isn't anywhere for you to go to any more.

And now you're sitting in the corridor with your back against the wall, the carpet feels scratchy beneath your palms and you feel dirty, like you've sinned and that's it, isn't it? You blink and the tears start to fall, running down your cheeks and you stare at the ceiling, unmoving because oh god, what have you done, what have you done.

**Author's Note:**

> beta-ed by the lovely [mistress_shiny](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mistress_shiny/pseuds/mistress_shiny).


End file.
